


hair of gold, eyes of sky, bed of roses

by MarionetteFtHJM



Series: The 1917 Vintage Collection [3]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Boys Kissing, Flowers, Fluff, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tom is a Sweetheart, William Schofield's Hands, no beta we die like men, the smut is very mild, this is very soft, very mild tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarionetteFtHJM/pseuds/MarionetteFtHJM
Summary: The last thing Thomas Blake expected to gain out of this whole war thing is William Schofield.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: The 1917 Vintage Collection [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710985
Comments: 35
Kudos: 242





	hair of gold, eyes of sky, bed of roses

**Author's Note:**

> Hi um this is unbearably soft through and through with a lot of pining, flowers, tom being a sweetheart and then thirst over scho's bigass hands  
> hope y'all enjoy!  
> Also, theres a lot of hand-wavy shit when it comes to the military portion of this bc i was too lazy to research properly so ignore any inaccuracies bc there are probably plenty.

The last thing Thomas Blake expected to gain out of this whole _war thing_ is William Schofield.

Though, it's not like Tom _has_ William Schofield, per se. It's more that he's gained the man's friendship over the course of their time together in the eighth. And that friendship felt like a privilege, like a medal of honour more than any actual medal felt. Because befriending William Schofield was no easy feat so he’ll wear that damned medal with pride. 

Tom's not ashamed to admit that he's a nosey little bastard, chatty on a good day and annoying on every other day. He's a social butterfly and he thrives best when surrounded by individuals that are willing to lend an ear and hear his stories out. He's at his best surrounded by others; by those who are as merry and as loud, and yet something deep inside him drives him to seek out Lance Corporal Schofield's company almost upon first sight.

He'd known that the older had been in the Eighth for a bit longer before Tom had arrived there - fresh out of training and still a little wide-eyed. He knew instinctually that Schofield had already seen the horrors everyone spoke of all the time – even without meeting the man’s eye. It was visible in the line of his slumped but broad shoulders, in the way he clutched his rifle and walked as if he was expecting to be shot even behind their own trench lines. But he knew _knew_ Schofield had seen unimaginable horrors when the other had turned to look at the fresh meat that had arrived to fill the ranks of their regiment and he’d caught a glimpse of his hollowed cheeks and spooked, blue eyes.

Something inside of Tom had pulsed then, alerting him that this man was in desperate need of a shoulder to cry on and made him feel as if he’d seen an abandoned puppy at the side of the road. It was perhaps patronizing to think of Schofield as an abandoned pup but the sentiment was there – the sudden urge to _protect_ and _take back home_ so strong it almost made Tom trip over his own feet as he walked past the man.

It hadn’t taken him long after that to make himself a permanent shadow to the other soldier at all.

* * *

He decided that he’d start slow.

He’s rightfully scared that he’ll spook the Lance Corporal if he comes on too strong like he usually would if they were just two blokes in any other scenario. It’ll be a rather covert operation, he thinks. To cover his tracks, Tom makes friends with the other soldiers, does his best to remember their names and tells stories and entertains on days that are slow and dreary. Gives off the impression that he just wants everyone to be his friend. But that doesn’t stop him from bolting the moment he sees the Corporal amble away alone. The moment the man’s back is turned to the trenches, he picks his gear up and books it after the soldier. He’s been doing this for three days already. The others assume they’re already friends but Tom just smiles and politely keeps his mouth shut when they ask about it.

He keeps his distance like he has so far, walking as softly as possible with the weight of his kit on his back. He sits a few paces away from where the man has dropped down to nap leaned up against his preferred tree. He waits and waits but the other doesn’t turn to speak to him. So another day of silence it is.

Tom idly plucks the grass around him and waves the blades into small wreaths that he puts on his fingers. He wishes they had daises out here that haven’t been trampled into the ground already, those always made for pretty wreaths. Maybe there are some in the forest ahead of him; he’ll have to check one of these days.

When the captain calls for them, he silently stands up and returns to the trenches, ready for another day of patching the ground up and digging further down the line.

The next day is very much the same. He stands up to follow the other and sits a bit away from him, makes small wreaths to wear as rings for the time being and then goes back when the tasks are being distributed. 

The day after that he decides to walk past the other soldier and into the small forest, determined to find some actual flowers to weave together now that the green and yellow grass had become boring. And much to his surprise, he feels the other’s eyes on his back as he manoeuvres between the solemn trees to try and find anything of colour by surveying the ground closely. He spots a few of the elusive flowers sprouting from sparse grass and beams. Unfortunately, having forgotten that he’s still wearing his heavy kit, he tips forward into a tumble when he tries to bend down for them and ends up arse-over-head and on his back, staring at the canopy of the forest above him in bewilderment.

There’s a bark of laughter from the side and he whips his head in the direction to see his mystery man holding a hand over his mouth with his shoulders shaking in silenced laughter.

 _Great,_ he sighs and looks away. He opts to remain lying down on the ground with the few daisies he’d managed to gather still in his hand. He feels like his cheeks are on fire and really, isn’t this just typical? He closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them he meets the very blue of the other soldier’s staring down at him.

He blinks rapidly to try and dispel the surprise that wants to make his body jolt up in alarm. _Well_ , _isn’t this a nice view?_ His mind supplies unhelpfully and the tips of his ears tingle as he begins blushing all over again. _How is he so quiet?!_

“You alright?” The other asks and _oh,_ Tom realizes he’s never heard him speak before. A right shame, that, he concludes.

“Yes, just – wallowing, I suppose.” He tries to smile and receives a tentative one in return.

“Any injuries that are not those of the ego and or pride?” The soldier offers him a hand – a _large_ hand that engulfs his entirely as he takes it. He stumbles upright, his other hand still uselessly clutching at the daisies as the other soldier pats him on the shoulder.

“Think it’ll take a while for my ego to recover but other than that, I’ll live.” He clears his throat. The other looks him over as if to make sure and then releases his hand with a nod.

He watches as the man walks back over to his tree and then sighs inwardly. He goes on with his task of collecting flowers and when he returns to the other’s side, he sits down a bit closer than before, close enough to be actually seen by the other. He waves the flowers with practiced ease; aware of the other’s occasional glances directed at his hands. He’s finishing up with the last of the daisies when he remembers that he’s on water duty today and that he has to get back a bit earlier than usual. He stands and in a bout of bravery, drops the small wreath around the barrel of the other’s rifle where it’s propped up against the tree. He doesn’t stay to watch it slide down until it snags on the thicker part of the gun nor does he wait to see the other’s reaction. He fights with himself for being an embarrassment but decides not to think about it too much since he has actual work to do. Best not to dwell on the past. Even if it happened mere moments ago.

The very next day the other is already sitting in his spot when Blake detangles himself from the card game he’d accidentally started during lunch with some of the other soldiers. And when Tom comes to the patch of grass that he’d made a little nest out of during his time observing the other, he finds a bunch of daisies there laid out and waiting for him. He falters only momentarily before dropping down and starting the process of making another little wreath for the other’s rifle. His stomach churns with unidentified emotion at the unexpectedly sweet gesture and he’s endlessly charmed by the other’s quiet disposition. _Ah. Not this again._

From then, a new routine is established. For a few days, on the afternoons or mornings that the other leaves for the tree earlier than he is able to follow, the other gifts him the flowers which he weaves together in the patterns that he knows and then when he runs out of those, he tries and make new ones. The experimental ones always end up being a little messy so he keeps going until he perfects those too and when he feels confident enough, he drops the wreaths produced around the other’s rifle. They never stay around the weapon for long and he doesn’t know what the other does with them but he idly hopes that the soldier keeps them somewhere safe even though, realistically, he knows that the other has no use for foolish sentiments such as flower crowns.

It’s – oddly peaceful. He likes sitting out there in the field under the sun, hunched over his flowers and blades of grass, making wreaths to pass the time and maybe brighten up the mysterious man’s days. However, he still feels a little bad about not actually knowing the man’s name. Though, he doesn’t want to risk exposing himself by asking anyone else so he’ll have to either go to the source or live in ignorance forever. Or at least until the man volunteers the information himself. Which isn’t likely, so he keeps his tongue behind his teeth and continues with his flowers. Occasionally, though, he glances the other’s way.

He can’t help but admire the other’s semi-profile. He admires the sharp edge of the other’s nose and the curve of his jaw perhaps more than he should. His mind is imprinted with the shade of pale blue of the other’s eyes and he can’t help but compare them to the sky when the sun is at its highest. He remembers the width of his jaw and the amused tilt of his mouth as the man had looked down from above him. Remembers the callused hand that had gripped his own and the smooth and quiet voice when the other spoke. He blushes to himself, hands fumbling with a daisy and breaking the stem in the wrong place.

“Heavens,” He mutters, tossing it aside when a shadow falls over him and – _how does he do that!?_ He startles, looking up and then has to promptly look down because the sun behind the other’s helm-less head is making it look like he’s got a halo and Tom’s stomach flips uneasily at the sight. He wishes he had charcoal and paper so that he could properly sketch the other out but then again, that would be a rather odd thing to do, wouldn’t it?

“Not having a good one?” The man asks, settling down cross-legged in front of him, a determined and slightly curious look on his face.

He shrugs in response, not really sure what to say. He looks down at his watch and realizes that he’s been sitting there and fretting over the flowers for longer than usual because he’s been thinking about everything that he’s memorized about the other and that they’d started wilting. He feels like he can’t say anything in return. He’s not often silent but currently, he’s scared he’ll start babbling like a fool if he opens his mouth even a fraction.

The Lance Corporal looks at him for a moment and then at the half-finished wreath in his hands. “Can you teach me?” The other surprises him by asking and Tom eyes him dubiously before slowly nodding.

“Can you braid?” He asks, separating a few of the flowers with sturdy stalks to pass over to the other.

“Not well, I’m afraid.” The other gives him a sheepish smile and Tom feels his own lips tug up at the corners.

“I’m sure we’ll manage to teach you something.”

So he shows the other how to make a simple braided bracelet; he helps the soldier decorate it with the remaining daisies and still doesn’t ask for the other’s name. It’s a companionable silence that is broken only by Tom’s occasional braiding advice that the other follows it with surprising ease. And when they’re done, when the time to go approaches, the other stands up with him and does what Blake had been doing for days now already; he gets up and drops the braided bracelet around the end of Tom’s rifle.

His heart pounds in his ribcage as he watches the taller walking back towards the trenches ahead of him. _This again, then,_ he thinks somewhat sadly and trails after the silent soldier at a respectable distance.

After that he starts sitting closer to the other again. Close enough that the other can observe openly and absorb the techniques he uses. And eventually, the other joins his efforts and they end up making wreaths for each other almost every day like a couple of carless children enjoying their youth. 

Eventually, the happenings at the battlefront come crashing through the door to disrupt their peaceful little place under the sun and things come to a halt for a couple of weeks.

By the time the Lance Corporal is back in his preferred spot, his cheeks are back to being pale and Tom has a new scar on his arm that still stings a little when he moves too quickly.

He drops down onto the ground the closest he ever has to the man the next time they’re back at the tree without hesitation. He can’t keep the pained hiss that escapes him at the sudden movement back and he winces. The other solider turns to look at him swiftly, eyes squinted and assessing his state, looking for open wounds.

He shakes his head. “Got clipped in the shoulder. It’s healed but it still stings a bit.”

The other nods and goes back to gazing at the forest ahead of them in a sort of dead-eyed stare that makes Blake want to bundle him up in a couple of blankets and feed him soup.

Maybe it’s the fact that they’re sitting so close together today or the fact that the other has shown genuine concern for his wellbeing but Tom feels like he’s made significant progress on the whole _befriend this mystery man_ front.

Said mystery man clears his throat out of the blue, “I – ah. You’re not usually this quiet.” The soldier grinds out like the words pain him, like he’s crawling back into himself from the awkward way that his tone falls flat even though he’s trying to start a conversation. Tom, personally, thinks it’s _endearing_.

“I'm not?” He tilts his head, doing his best to come off as unassuming and innocent.

“No, I mean. _You_ _are_ , but not - not when we’re back in the trenches.” The man’s face scrunches up and Tom can only stare at his profile in wonder. 

“You’re complaining?” He teases, feeling a little brave and a little dumb, intrigued at the prospect of holding a proper conversation with the other.

“Ah – no, I...” The other ducks his head in a helpless gesture and flops a hand up and down uselessly.

“Relax, mate, I’m teasing.” He chuckles as the other’s head swivels towards him, a wide-eyed look on his face. The wide-eyed look softens him up a little, though, so he takes mercy on the other. He shuffles his bag off his back and drops down to stare at the clouds in the sky. “I suppose I _am_ a little quieter out here.”

“Any particular reason for it? I just – I mean, I hope it’s not on my account.” The soldier wrings his hands together somewhat nervously and Blake thinks that perhaps he wasn’t the only one left in the dark here.

He steels himself and sits back up. He shuffles to the side until he’s facing the other and sticks his hands up. “Lance Corporal Thomas Blake, at your service.”

The man blinks at his outstretched hand owlishly and grasps it slowly. “Lance Corporal William Schofield.”

 _And so the man gets a name – William Schofield._ He grins proudly, feeling a little odd at finally matching a name to the face. He doesn’t know how long it’s escaped him. He’s heard it thrown around on the rare occasion but he’d never connected it to the tall man sitting in front of him.

“So, Lance Corporal Schofield, do you _want_ me to talk or shall I lapse back into silence and start another wreath?” His smile lessens a little, going from overbearingly bright to something a little unsure as his confidence level drops significantly.

“I just – if you want to talk, I don’t mind.” Schofield relaxes back against the tree a little, dropping his hand and returning them to his lap. “Figured if the others are eager to listen then you must have something worthy to tell.” The other smiles and Blake dares to privately call it _teasing._

“I’m not so sure about that but, I’ll give it my best.”

And thusly, Thomas Blake befriended William Schofield.

* * *

It’s been a taxing week – it’s been a taxing _year,_ really, but this week has been even more so.

They’d moved. The previous trench line abandoned and a new one established – a new one that needed to be dug out. And digging trenches was dirty work. It was painful and it was dangerous and knowing they’re going to be spending an undetermined amount of time in them was disheartening.

Next week he’s getting a few days off, a leave for some time but not enough to go home from where they’re currently stationed. He’s going to miss mom and Myrtle but it’s not worth going home for such a short period of time. But right now, they need to enforce the walls so that they don’t cave in – _again._

“Good grief, I think my arms are about to fall off.” He complains, leaning against the boards as Schofield hammers at the thing into place efficiently.

“Might get out of this bloody war if they do.” The other chuckles and Tom sighs dreamily.

“I can’t wait to get somewhere where there’s a proper bed, a bath and a good pint.” He admits, handing the other a nail for the next bit of wood.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Schofield sighs, “Where are you going to find a proper bed, let alone a decent pint?”

He shrugs, “I was thinking about finding the nearest town and trading in the bit of gold I have with me for some money.” He wiggles his fingers in the other’s direction and Schofield directs a glare at him.

“Don’t do that,” The hammer smacks next to the nail, missing the head by a smidge, as Schofield grumbles. “Don’t waste the gold on that, you might regret it. We’ll find something else to trade in.”

Tom straightens up, faltering a little as he tilts his head, “We?”

“Oh,” Schofield blinks a couple of times. “Right, I forgot to tell you. I’ve got leave the same time as you. Figured we’d, you know.” The taller clears his throat, grimacing a little, “Stick together?”

“Scho! Why didn’t you say so sooner? We could have planned better for this!” He whines, dramatically leveraging himself with the side of the trench as Will rolls his eyes at him.

“Found out yesterday but I – I got distracted, forgot.” Scho admits and finishes with the last plank.

It’s getting dark so they should be changing shifts soon. He can’t wait to get some rest even if it won’t be the kind he really wants. The restful feeling you get after spending the night in a large bed with soft covers and a loved one with blue eyes and –

He looks away, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. _Right. That._ Well, excellent, now he’s _worried_. He couldn’t even let himself be happy that he’ll have four whole days with just Schofield at his side because now he’s thinking about his _predicament_ and how spending even more time with Will is going to be torture for his poor little heart.

He rubs over his chest idly, absently staring at the ground as he walks after the taller and back to where they sleep. The hovel him and his team of men shared was right next to Will’s – a small mercy for his aches.

A hand gripped his wrist and he looked up, startled.

“You alright? Did you sprain something?” Will’s worried pout shouldn’t have been as adorable as it is.

Tom feels his insides squirm with the burdensome feelings in his heart. “Perhaps, must be from all the heavy lifting I did all day.” He raises an arm and pats his bicep even though you can’t actually see it through the layers of clothing on him.

Will chuckles and flicks the brim of his helmet. “Don’t overdo it, muscle man.”

“Your concern is heart-warming but unnecessary.” He puffs his chest out in the low light and Will shakes his head fondly.

It would be so much easier to let _everything_ go if Will wasn’t the way he is. If Schofield wasn’t a caring, lovely, tender soul then Tom could easily get over it. But Will _is_ all of those things and so much more and Tom is helpless against it all.

Befriending William Schofield was one of the worst and best things he’s ever done and he was currently living during wartime in trenches filled with rats and mud and sickness.

That night, as he’s trying to fall asleep, a hand clamps over his mouth and his eyes snap open in fear. But when he looks to the side he meets Will’s gaze and he relaxes. It’s oddly light near the entrance to the hovel where Tom usually sleeps so he’s able to see the sparkling blue of it easily.

“Come on,” Scho hushes and removes his hand – and, yes, that confirms it, his hands are _still_ quite large. Big enough that looking at them sends a little thrill of the illicit down Tom’s spine.

He shuffles out of the hovel and follows the other down the quiet trench line until they’re out in the field. He realizes that this new field doesn’t have the tall grass the previous one had but that there _is_ a tree there that resembles the one they’d made theirs back at the previous encampment.

“Look,” Scho whispers as he settles down against the tree, pointing up and Tom follows his hand and looks.

He lets out a quiet gasp as he’s faced with the full moon – larger than he’s ever seen it. Unobstructed and so bright that it hurts his eyes to stare at it a little. There are no other starts to be seen up there but the moon is certainly making up for the lack of them.

“Bloody hell, it’s giant!” He hushes excitedly, scooting back until he’s sitting next to the other.

“I could never sleep properly on the nights of the full moon.” Will’s voice is a gentle breeze washing over him and he shivers.

“You a werewolf, Scho? I’m insulted you haven’t told me.” He grins, eyes still glued to the sight in the cloudless sky.

“Hm, maybe I am.” Will shoots back and Tom snort, an unattractive sound because he’s been caught off guard.

“I’ll make sure I keep a bit of silver on me just in case, then.” He nudges the other’s shoulder with his own and Will huffs quietly.

“I think that I’d have better control over myself than to hurt anyone if I _were_ a werewolf.” Schofield informs him and Tom agrees. He knows that the other doesn’t like hurting anyone, doesn’t like taking lives even at the risk of his own.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t hurt a rat.” He agrees, wincing at how gentle his voice sounds and at how he _knows_ that his eyes are wide and filled with awe for the other. He can’t help it, he really can’t.

Will laughs quietly, throwing his head back and closing his eyes like Tom has said something particularly comedic.

 _Oh God,_ he thinks, _I want to kiss him._

So that settles that then, he’s finally admitting it to himself. Anything he feels for the other is no longer platonic or a form of hero-worship. He wants to kiss the living daylight out of Will’s wide mouth. He wants to kiss along his sharp cheekbones and his permanent frown. He wants to hold his large hands and wants to feel them on his back, his chest his a-

_Well that’s just too fucking bad, innit?_

* * *

They manage to hitch a ride to the nearest town with a couple of others in the supply truck. Nobody questions them about their intentions once where and it doesn’t matter anyway, everyone knows what a solider on leave will do. Eat, drink, fuck, sleep. It’s always the same and the stories they tell once they’re back in the trenches are the same, too. It doesn’t matter what really happens on leave as long as you can spin a tall tale about it that will keep the morale high and the men laughing despite the _shite_ conditions they’re living in.

And Blake intends to spin his own tall tale no matter the fact that he won’t probably drink _or_ fuck – not with Scho around to keep him content and occupied with his company.

The town is a bit shoddy, depressingly gray and damp. It’s a perfect place to spend a couple of days away from the war without it tricking you into thinking that it’s over. He stands there on the wet cobblestones and observes as the people putter around lifelessly. There are soldiers there, mixed with the local crowd. It must be Sunday because there’s a big market down the road and those are rare in these tough times. Most towns have been ravaged by the war – if not by the opposition then by their own forces who require all of the rations that they can get their hands on.

“Go get us a room; I’ll see what I can do about that pint you wanted.” Schofield nudges him towards an inn and Tom looks at him a little helplessly. He might be charming when it counts but he doesn’t know what he can get for the measly couple of quid in his pocket.

Still, he steels himself and marches swiftly towards the inn’s door.

It turns out that he doesn’t much need to worry because the inn has a standard agreement with the military. They allow the men on leave to stay there as long as they don’t damage the property and don’t leave a mess behind. He leaves one of his rings at the front desk as a deposit on the room and gets the key in turn. He then goes back out to wait for Scho who shows up a couple of moments later with a grin on his face.

“Good news?” He tilts his head curiously and Will nods. The taller holds up a bottle of what appears to be whiskey and Tom’s eyes widen.

“I know it’s not really a pint but,” Schofield shrugs and Tom chuckles.

“How’d you manage to get your hands on _that_?” He turns back and enters the inn, leading the other up towards their room.

“Oh, um.” Scho clears his throat. “Traded my medal in with one of the locals.”

He snaps back, looking at Will with a glare. “How is that _any_ better than me pawning off my gold?!” He hisses, smacking the back of his hand against the other’s chest.

Will shrugs, “Less sentimental value. I don’t need anything reminding me that I lived while others didn’t.”

“Will.” He softens his tone but the other shakes his head.

“It’s fine, yeah?” The taller nudges him forward again, “Get the door open.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes but doing as the other requests. He has a brief moment of panic because he hadn’t specified the _type_ of room he needed before he opens the door and finds that there are, thankfully, two beds in the room. He breathes out and thanks the Heavens for that. Or well, the girl that had given him the key to the room.

“Not bad,” He breathes out to mask the hitch of relief in his breath as he props the door open fully.

“I’ve spent far too long sleeping on the ground to complain about a bed.” Will scoffs and claims the right side of the room for himself, dropping his bag onto the bed and sitting down to test the softness.

“That is very true,” He hums, closing the door and going left. “God, I know there’s still six hours of daylight left but I feel like I don’t want to do anything today.” He admits, slowly working his boots off his feet. They’re considerably dressed down from their usual grab but there’s no room for casual clothes in the trenches so they don’t tend to keep them on hand. Though, they _did_ pack away their heavier layers for when they return in four days.

“Well, then; today we sleep.” Scho chuckles easily and Tom’s heart hurts with how relaxed the other seems for the first time since he’s come to know the other. The closest he’d gotten to seeing this was that first time they discovered a river near their new entrenchment spot. Schofield had sat at the riverbank for hours until one of the men from his unit came running to fetch them because they had digging-related tasks to attend to. 

“Yeah? Not keen to get out of bed now that you’re finally in one?” He grins as Will’s smile spreads.

“I’m parting with this thing only under extreme duress and to take my clothes off.” The other admits and he nods in agreement. The bed feels heavenly under him after so many months in the trenches.

“Then we’re in agreement.” He manages to kick his boots off and stands to drop his trousers. He wiggles out of the layers he has on and slides under the covers like he’s sliding into a cloud. He sighs, humming pleasantly. A couple of moments of silence and then the unmistakable sound of Schofield shedding his own garments and Tom - well, he’s only human. He cracks open an eyelid and fights down the blush as he takes in the other’s wide and pale back, the way muscles shift under his skin as he struggles to undo his belt, the way the little indentations near the other’s tailbone dance as he moves, the way-

He closes his eyes firmly and shifts away, ashamed at himself for taking advantage of the other’s trust like that. Schofield is finally relaxed enough to let himself be so vulnerable and there Tom is, ogling him as if he were a harlot. Well, he’s not sure _who_ the harlot in this scenario is but Tom certainly feels dirty. And it’s not even the fact that Schofield’s obviously – _obviously –_ a man, it’s the betrayal of the trust that he’s bothered by. He curses himself silently and forces his body to relax.

“Night,” Will mumbles and Tom feels himself twitch in surprise.

“Have a pleasant nap,” He chuckles, making his voice as steady as possible.

He doesn’t expect to sleep through the night but he’s obviously more tired than he realized because when he wakes up it’s no longer the first day and is, in fact, 6 a.m. the next morning.

He groans and rubs a hand over his face, grimacing at the bit of drool on the side of his cheek that he finds. He looks around bleary-eyed and disoriented, thinking at first that he’s home but not recognizing the room he’s in. He remembers then; remembers coming into town with Scho and the girl at the front desk with her choppy, accented English and Scho’s naked back. He smacks a hand against his forehead.

“Christ,” Sighing, he twists at the waist, getting his back to pop and set itself.

The door opens as he’s mid-twist and he turns towards it so fast that something cracks alarmingly in his spine. Then again, he wishes he’d just keel over and die from it because a moment later Will is walking into the room – bare-chested with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, trousers dangerously low on his hips.

“Oh, you’re up.” Will smiles and every dirty thought Tom’s had in the span of five seconds about the other falls away due to the endearment that surges up in him at the shy grin.

“I feel like I was in a coma, what the hell?” He chuckles, looking away.

“Must have been more tired than we thought,” Will confirms, rubbing his hair dry and giving Tom ample opportunity to ogle his strong arms that he _doesn’t take, alright._ “Communal showers per floor, better get to it if you don’t want to be staring at old-man ass while you’re at it.”

“Ugh,” He groans, “You’re right. Very wise, beyond your years.”

“I think I’m plenty old.” Schofield hums and – and – _throws him a wink??_

 _Right_ , _what’s all this then?!_

“Towels by the door, soaps in the dish next to them. Go on, anymore time in that bed and you’ll start to rot.” Schofield shoos him away with a light laugh and Tom feels as if he’s stepped into a book – a tale of his own world but so fundamentally _different_ that it tips everything he’s ever know upside down and makes him dizzy with the motion. He’s beginning to realize that men that have been in the war for long enough lock a part of themselves away as self-preservation and that maybe, just maybe, he should learn by example.

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’!” He stumbles out of the bed, legs protesting after so much time spent without movement. “When’d you get so bossy?” He grumbles, dodging out of the way as Scho smacks the damp towel in his direction.

“When you started stinkin’ up the place, Blake.” Will jests, his laugh following Tom out the door as he tries desperately to fight the blush colouring his cheeks.

He only sees precisely one old man arse in the shower and he’s thankfully finished by the time the, frankly, indecent stalls start getting crowded. The waist-height partition is good for someone his height but for someone taller, someone like _Scho_ for example, it would leave very little to the imagination. He hopes he doesn’t have to think about that again, ever, for as long as he’s alive. The image of Will fresh out of the shower is already enough to have his heartbeat stuttering but thinking about the process of it will send him into the grave – both from arousal and mortification.

Why was he such a horny bastard?? Life wasn’t fair.

And, on top of it all, he hadn’t brought his underwear and pants with him. Delightful. He sighs and ties the towel around his waist, waddling back towards the room on bare feet with the soap clutched in his hand.

Scho’s reading a book. He opens the door further and peers at the other. It _looks_ like Scho’s reading a book but his big hands are so gentle where they grip the hardback cover and his eyes aren’t moving from where he’s focusing. The other hasn’t noticed him and it feels somehow odd, almost like he’s intruding – mostly because the other is always so aware of everything around him and impossible to sneak up on.

He clears his throat and Will smacks the book closed loud enough for both of them to startle at the sound.

“You were right about the old man arse.” He breaks the sudden tension with a gentle chuckle and a grimace, pleased as Scho’s shoulders relax again. He turns away just as the other’s eyes slide down from his face to presumably take in the rest of him. He tries not to crumble under the weight of the other’s stare. He gets dressed quickly and efficiently, with blood pouring into his cheeks as his _other_ cheeks are hit with a gust of air when he drops the towel. _Not to self for next time: bring your damn clothes._

“What have we planned for today?” He turns around, buttoning his shirt clumsily as Will stares at him with a furrow between his eyebrows.

“Oh, huh.” The other shakes himself out of whatever stupor he was in and shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. I suppose a walk around town, get some proper food, I’m starving.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” He whines, slapping a hand lightly against his stomach. They slept through the day yesterday and had only had breakfast so he’s feeling a little hollowed out now. He hears Will laugh and instinctively looks over to the other. He squints as he notices the other putting the thin booklet into the tin he always keeps on him. _The book must be poetry if it’s that thin,_ he thinks _, no respectable author would write something as short and thin_.

He puts on his boots as Will is shrugging on his jacket, he thinks about putting his own on but forgoes it. It’s warm enough outside for him to leave it behind. He pockets the money he has and waits for the other soldier to stop fretting over his lapels fussily.

He rolls his eyes and steps closer to him. He bats the other’s hands away and fixes Scho’s collar and straightens his jacket properly. “There, spiffy as ever. Come on before I die of starvation.” He smiles easily before realizing how close he’s standing to the other and then the smile drops quickly, replaced by an awkward throat-clear.

“Right, let’s go.” Will, looking a little bewildered himself, nods, pushing past him gently.

He suppresses the shudder that goes through him as they brush up against each other and follows after Scho dutifully.

They mill around the dreary town for a while until they settle in a quiet little restaurant that’s right by the market. It’s small but it’s pleasant and the food is good. It’s been ages since he’s last had pork and he savours every bite of it. They don’t talk much during, both too busy with their food to talk about anything and after they’ve paid for their meal – a discounted price on the count of them being British soldiers and all that – they head out towards the hill overlooking the town.

“Found this place yesterday. It looked like a good spot to relax at.” Will explains, steadying him as he stumbles over a rock. Despite being trained for all sorts of terrain they may encounter, he’s still not as apt at uphill climbing as Scho is.

“Another grassy meadow, huh?” He teases. “Didn’t take you for such a romantic.”

 _Fuck’s sake, shove your foot deeper in your mouth, would you?_ He mentally curses his own stupid brain for even thinking of uttering the words _romantic_ in Scho’s direction.

Thankfully, Will just snorts in amusement, most likely used to Tom and his stupid, off the cuff, remarks. “There used to be one behind my house. I suppose I’m rather fond of them.”

He plops down at the top of the hill and finds himself surrounded by daises and violets. It’s March, it makes sense that they’re in full bloom again. He remembers then, how this all had started and in a fit of foolish sentimentality, he picks a few of them up and starts weaving them in a familiar pattern.

“I – ah.” Will starts and then stops, Tom can see him shaking his head a little.

“What?” He’s genuinely curious as to why Will’s suddenly tongue-tied. The other’s not much of a speaker but when he wants to speak he does so with his usual brand of surety that Tom can only envy.

“I miss the flowers when they’re gone.” Will says after a moment of silence, as simple as that. Such a tepid sentence compared to what Tom thought the other might say but holding such a weight that he can’t even begin to process it. So he doesn’t try to. He takes it at face value and nods silently.

“I missed being able to do this.” He lifts up the beginnings of the wreath for a moment before continuing with his original task. “Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop, as they say. It’s why I learned to do this – and knitting, to keep myself busy.” He admits. He remembers that he was never able to concentrate on anything for too long as a child. That his hands were always tapping away or scratching or picking at scabs. His mother had forced him to learn knitting as a way for him to concentrate when it came time for him to do school work. Then she’d taught him the wreaths to keep him out of the cherry orchards in the summer and he’d liked that more than the knitting.

“That’s – I - I can play the piano.” Will offers in turn and Tom’s head snaps up, eyes wide.

“You can?!” His eyes immediately snap down towards the other’s hands and he regrets it immediately because they’re still large and strong and he’d still very much like to hold them. “That’s amazing!” He pulls himself back, a little flustered and suddenly consumed with the need to see Will play.

“I’m a little rusty by now, I’m sure. But, yes. I used to play.” Will chuckles, his hands plucking at the grass next to his bent knees. “I last played before the war, for my sister and her daughters. She wanted me to teach them but I never got around to it.”

“Well, let’s hope you get the chance to, yeah?” He smiles gently, knowing that the war is a sore topic for anyone and that he needs to thread lightly.

“Hope is a dangerous thing, I’ve been told.” Will offers up his arm and Tom stares at it blankly before realizing he’s supposed to wrap the wreath around the other’s wrist. He blinks a couple of times before hurriedly tying it off around the proffered hand.

They watch the sun set behind the hill; it casts lovely pink and orange hues across the clouds and the valley below this time of year. It leaves him a little breathless but, if he were an honest man, he’d admit that the way the pink reflects in Schofield’s is the thing to blame for his lack of breath and brain power.

Once it’s dark fully, they head back to the inn for dinner.

The wife of the owner ushers them into the small dining room and babbles at them in French, poking Will’s cheek and motioning presumably to how skinny he is. Tom watches, amused, as the other blushes under the motherly affection.

When their bellies are proper stuffed with some more home cooking they make their way up to the room.

“This was nice,” He hums, letting Scho enter the room before he closes the door after him. Will doesn’t respond, though, and it’s odd enough that Tom has to turn and take a look at him, try and gauge his reaction. He pauses as he meets the other’s eye. Will’s gone a little pale, hands gripping the hem of his jacket.

“Scho?” He asks, tentatively approaching the trembling figure.

“Did I ever tell you I hated leave?” Will’s eyes fill with tears and Tom stumbles forward, a hand pressed against the other’s shoulder.

“No, you haven’t.” He hushes, heart beating rapidly at the sudden shift in the conversational tone.

“I never went home. I haven’t been home since I’ve been drafted. Every time I go I-” The taller cuts himself off, shaking his head as his voice wavers. “I hate it. Knowing that I might never get to go back. And this – I thought I’d be fine. Thought this was different because I'm not really home, you know? But no. It’s worse.” Will drops his hands and flexes his fingers for a moment before walking towards the door. “I’ll be back later.”

He’s helpless in that moment. He uselessly watches the other leave the room and then through the window watches him trudge through the apple orchard behind the inn and into the distance. He curses softly, dropping onto the bed and gripping his head with his hands.

He understands. In a way he is the same. But where Will is always going to have a negative outlook on it, Tom tends to be positive. Despite the mayhem of the war and everything that they’ve done so far, he think that it’s going to play out in their favour and that he’ll be ready to put it behind them. Schofield, on the other hand, is waiting for the day that they all die; he’s biding his time until he gets shot, he doesn’t like false hopes. And there Tom is, shitting all over the man’s only coping mechanism with his own idealistic musings and childish naivety.

He realizes that he needs to tone it down. He needs to let Will do what he’s done so far without trying to _convert_ him to his own way of thinking. Joe’s always told him that he was an infectious little bastard but he’s never thought it was something negative. The older would be proud to see him now, thinking with his head for once instead of blabbering whatever comes to his mind first.

 _I’ll do better,_ he tells himself as he gets ready for bed, _I’ll do better for Scho._

Sleep, however, evades him. He lies awake, staring at Scho’s empty bed until his eyes water. He’s positive that the other’s going to return any moment now and after an hour or so he hears the door opening. He doesn’t dare move, just allows Schofield to enter his field of vision with his slumped shoulders and sorrowful eyes. 

He watches, fascinated, as Will takes off his jacket and pulls the flat tin he always has on him. His breath catches quietly, then, because Will carefully takes the wreath bracelet off his wrist and inserts it between the pages of the book he’d been reading earlier. He – he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get it – why would Will preserve something so useless? Were the other wreaths he’s made over the months that they’ve known each other also there? Did Scho keep them all?

His stomach and heart clench in unison. He clenches his eyes shut as stupid thoughts start invading his head. No, no. It’s not – Will’s just a good friend. Will’s not like him – _Scho is_ _nothing like him._ He hopes that the other doesn’t notice that he’s awake or that if he dies that he’ll say nothing and then Tom can continue pretending their interactions mean nothing more than just that.

* * *

He gasps awake, bolting upright in the unfamiliar bed with hands on his shoulders.

“Blake. Blake – Tom!” Will’s voice pierces through the haze in his head and he looks up to find worried blue eyes staring at him. He gasps, hand shooting out and making contact with the other’s neck. Will startles, the frown between his eyebrows deepening.

“Nightmares?” Scho asks quietly and – and Tom can’t really remember.

“I – I don't know.” He feels the other’s pulse under his hand and realizes that he’s still holding on to his neck. He retracts his hand slowly and Will does the same, releasing him and letting him plop down onto the bed. “I don’t remember. I just – a sudden spike of fear and I was awake the next moment.”

“Maybe it’s best that you don’t remember.” Will sighs, scrubbing a hand over the stubble on his face. “Marié wants us down for breakfast, you better get dressed before she comes in here and drags you down herself.”

He gulps, nodding. He hates the unsettled feeling in his stomach. It feels like he’s about to either vomit or keel over. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the way his fingers are tingling. _Just another day, Blake, get it together._

They have breakfast with the owner of the inn and Marie and after they help her clean up. There are many travellers in the inn and, alongside them, some other solider. Though, most of them prefer either sleeping in or going out for food. He suspects that him and Scho are her favourites, though.

They don’t really have much to do and after looking around town – admiring the architecture and the nice little church that they have there – they meander back towards the restaurant where the waitress greets them with a smile. She’s from the town originally but she’s studying abroad – well, she _was_ studying in England before the war – so she knows a fair bit of English.

“You two staying long?” She asks as she brings their lunch.

“’Fraid not, we’re heading back tomorrow if we manage to hitch a ride.” He smiles as she hums.

“Céleste tells me Marié’s already practically adopted you.” She grins as he ducks his head with a chuckle.

“ _Céleste_?” Scho asks, careful and calculated as always.

“She works at the inn, front desk.” The waitress smiles. “She also says that you two are quite handsome.” The raven-haired girl winks at each of them in turn. “I'm Gabrielle, call for Gabi if you need anything else. _Bon appétit_.”

He knows he’s blushing like an idiot but seeing as Scho is a little pink in the cheeks as well, he feels better about it. Well. Céleste isn’t wrong – Will _is_ quite handsome.

“She seems to like you.” Scho mumbles after a few moments of them eating in silence.

He tilts his head, confused. “Who?”

Will rolls his eyes but smiles. “ _Gabi.”_

“Oh, well. I'm sure she’s nice, too.” It doesn’t occur to him until after he says it that Will means that Gabrielle likes him _like that_. As soon as it hits him he shakes his head, chuckling. “ _Oh.”_

“Yes ‘ _oh’.”_ Will grins but it – it doesn’t reach his eyes and Tom wonders why that is. “You should ask her out for drinks.”

“Why.” He deadpans before remembering that no, Will doesn’t know that he’s not quite into the ladies as he should be. “I mean – I'm only here for today, I don't want to get – _invested_.” He winces as Will raises an eyebrow. He hopes the other drops it, he doesn’t fancy explaining himself.

“Besides, I’d never disrespect her like that.” He manages to choke out as Will remains silent.

“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t.” The other nods, returning to his food as Tom splutters.

“What does _that_ mean?” He grumbles, huffing and poking around his plate with a fork.

“No offence meant.” Will hums. “It’s just that – you’re rather _soft,_ Blake. Honest and gentle. You never _did_ strike me as an avid brothel-goer.”

He feels his cheeks heat again, mortified at the fact that Scho thinks he’s _soft._ He is not _soft._ He is a man. And so what if he’s gentler than the rest? He was raised for the most part by a loving mother because their father had died when he was young, of course he’d be a little gentler than the rest. And being honest isn’t a bad thing.

“Yes, well. Fuck off.” He grunts and Will laughs, smile stretching easily this time and the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.

They eat the rest of their meal in silence and Gabi waves them off when they try to pay.

“Lunch is on me, enjoy the rest of your stay!” She grins and pats their backs easily as she ushers them out of the restaurant while the sun is still high in the sky.

As if it’s second nature to them, they start heading for the hill. It’s a little colder today, a little nippy, but the sun is still giving off that not-quite-spring warmth so he should be fine despite the lack of jacket.

It should, by all accounts, bore Tom to death. Just sitting there, mostly in silence, observing and sometimes playing with flowers, it should drive him insane. But every time he thinks about starting a conversation, he’d look at Will’s profile and see how calm and peaceful he looks and he’d tramp that instinct down savagely.

“I'm sorry.” Will says, always breaking the silence first because Tom doesn’t dare to.

“What for?” He looks up from the wreath in his lap.

“For storming out yesterday. That wasn’t a fair thing to do.” The taller shakes his head, hunching in on himself like he’s trying to hide. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s not your fault – I don't want you thinking that.”

He nods, feeling the faint pain in his chest and the guilt in his stomach ease fractionally. “I suppose I should try and be a little less naive about things like this.” He shivers as the wind picks up around them. The sun’s almost gone by now and Tom mourns the loss of pink reflected in Will’s eyes. He also wishes he’d brought his jacket with him.

“No – no.” The other shakes his head frantically. “Don’t – just because I'm a miserable old fuck, doesn’t mean that you have to be, too. The way you look at things, it’s refreshing. I'm the one that needs to stop being so certain that everything is fucked all the time.” Will huffs out a gust of air but this time it’s a noise of frustration and not happiness. “My point is: you don't have to stop being you just because I'm a moody cunt.”

He’s a little startled by the unsavoury vocabulary that doesn’t make its way out of the other’s mouth often but he recovers quickly. “You’re not that old.”

Will laughs, nudging his shoulder against Tom’s in a friendly gesture. “Thank you.”

“Bloody hell, did it get colder out here or am I bleeding out?” He grunts, wrapping his arms around himself. Will stands abruptly and Tom finds himself with the other’s jacket dropped over his shoulders. He looks up, wide-eyed, but Will just smiles down at him innocently.

“Come on, let’s head back.”

He follows yet again, like he always does, wondering when it will be Scho’s turn to follow _him_ somewhere.

Once back in the room, having successfully avoided getting dragged into the dining area for dinner under the guise of having to rest for the trip tomorrow, Tom’s faced with another dilemma. The showers are still communal and this time they’re both awake, he can’t avoid the fact that Scho’ll be there next to him while they wash. They _could_ take turns, but that would be weird because they shouldn’t _need_ to take turns.

He stalls for as long as possible – long enough that Will already leaves while Tom’s still struggling to get out of his boots. Scho’s jacket is still a consistent warmth over his shoulders and, suddenly, he gets the bright idea to _wear it._ He surges up so that he’s standing again, legs shaky. Ever so slowly, he slips his arms into the sleeves and tests out just how much larger the other’s frame is when compared to his own build. It’s definitely hanging off his shoulders but it – it makes him feel safe. He pats down his front like he would a jacket that actually fits him but his hand comes in contact with something hard in the inner pocket. He freezes. The tin. Scho’s tin.

He fumbles with it, snapping it open and overlooking the fact that he’s snooping like a traitor because his curiosity is getting the better of him. He carefully sets the tin with some of the photos down onto the bed and takes the thin book into his hands. He makes sure to open it slowly, fingers trailing over the worn spine.

He hisses under breath as he flips open the first page and finds a dried wreath between the papers, flattened but still somehow pretty. There’s nothing written on the paper itself, just the date in the upper right corner of the right side. He flips through the rest of it carefully and finds that Scho has indeed kept all of the little wreaths he’s gifted him; that he’s pressed them and dried them and then put them in his tin for safe keeping.

His chest hurts, he realizes, at the gentle gesture. He doesn’t – he can’t even think about how much this means to him or he’ll start bawling like a babe. Instead of panicking like he wants to, he closes the book and puts it back into the tin. He slides the tin into the jacket and throws the thing over the back of the chair by the window.

He pretends like he’s not going through emotional turmoil as he strips off his shirt and pads over to the showers with a towel slung around his neck and clean underwear in his hand. The sound of water hitting against the tiles feels like it’s coming from inside his head as he enters the steamy room. There’s obviously been more people in there at some point but now it’s only him and Scho left and Tom feels like he might combust.

He spots him immediately, his pale skin impossible to miss amidst brown tiles. He shuffles forward, mentally debating with himself how odd would it be if he took the stall next to the other and how weird it would seem if he left an empty stall between them. He breathes in deeply, holds it in and bites the bullet, taking the stall next to Will’s. The other doesn’t react and he lets the breath go. Scho’s leaned up against the wall, braced with his forearms on the tiles as the water slides down his back and seemingly lost in his own world.

“You alright?” Scho turns to look at him over his shoulder, with only one blue eye open but still somehow very intense.

“Mm,” He smiles, close-lipped and a little tight. He turns away, undressing as fast as humanly possible and praying that the other doesn’t pay him any mind.

He focuses on the task at hand, going through the motions mechanically and keeping his eyes to himself no matter how much he wants to look. Eventually, the other finishes and heads towards the line of sinks on the opposite wall. He relaxes a bit then, finally letting his muscles unclench now that the other’s out of his immediate range.

It’s oddly anticlimactic. Nothing happens and after Scho shaves he leaves for the showers. By the time he’s done with his own routine and back in the room, Scho’s got the whiskey out and two glasses on the bedside table next to him. The older looks up as he enters the room fully, a timid smile on his lips. Something’s tense in the air and he can’t figure out what it is.

“I cracked the bottle open, it might not be the best but it’ll do.” Will stands to pour the liquor into the glasses and Tom’s eyes are immediately drawn to the way his arm flexes, pale skin exposed in just the undershirt.

“All alcohol is bad,” He ends up saying, threading through the stale air between them lightly.

“Suppose so.” Will offers him the glass and Tom takes it, bringing it up to his nose to take a sniff. It’s – well.

“Potent.” He grimaces lightly, vividly remembering the last time he got drunk and Joe had to drag him home from the pub.

“To leave then, I guess.” Will tips his glass forward and he knocks his own against it. The sound rings through the small room and he winces, taking a sip. The liquor burns on the way down, settling warmly in his stomach. He wishes he’d had dinner now, to stave off the getting pissed part.

It feels odd to drink in silence so Tom searches within himself for something to talk about. He supposes that the story about Joe saving his ass from getting battered in a pub might be a good start. He settles down onto Scho’s bed and starts the tale, causing the other to relax again finally.

It’s quite the lengthy story and by the end of it Will is properly laughing, halfway through his third glass.

“So I'm walking out – finally, _finally –_ Joe dragging me behind him by the back of my shirt and this guy spits at my feet. And as if I hadn’t antagonizes them enough – mind you, I don't remember any of this. Joe told me the morning after while gloating into his cuppa. This guy spits at us and I go: _d’you know what you can do with that spit wasted?”_ He snorts through his nose and wraps his fingers around the air in a motion that clearly signifies them wrapped around a cock. He shuffles his hand up and down a couple of times in a wanking motion and then continues. “ _Yeah?_ And then I – I don't know. Think I winked at him or something else unsavoury and. Well. Joe got a black eye and the guy got a broken arm for his troubles and all I got was a hangover tomorrow morning.” He chuckles and looks up to see Will with a concentrated look on his face, staring at his hand where his fingers are still held loosely in a circle on his lap.

“Scho?” He waves the hand in front of the other’s face and Will blinks at him, looking a little dazed. “Don’t tell me the whiskey’s getting to you already?”

The other shakes his head, a wry smile stretching his lips. “I'm not usually much of a drinker.”

“I can't imagine you would be.” He grins and Will quirks an eyebrow in question.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you know. You’re a bit _soft.”_ He throws the other the words back, the alcohol in his blood giving him a decent dose of liquid courage.

“ _Ooh_ , witty.” Scho rolls his eyes fondly, nudging him with his shoulder and – and staying there, their arms pressed together as they sit on the bed.

He thinks about the days he’d spent sitting so far away from the other and then the subsequent days he’d spent teaching Scho about weaving flowers. He thinks about how long it had taken for him to even learn the other’s name and then the fact that he feels such pride and affection over being one of the people closest to Will. He knows his feelings aren’t strictly friendly but he’ll settle for them being hidden if it means that he’ll get to have Will like this, relaxed by his side and indulging him by listening to his stories.

“Hey, Scho?” He smiles into his glass, taking a big sip and finishing the glass off.

“Hm?” The other tilts his head in his direction and he’s suddenly very aware of how close they’re actually sitting.

“I'm glad you allowed me to be your friend.” He admits but the words feel heavier than they sound.

“And I'm glad you picked me out of the rest of us miserable fucks.” Will’s grin is easy and inviting and Tom’s eyes slip down to stare at it as if entranced.

A hand, large and a little rough but warm and gentle cups the side of his face. Will’s hand, he realizes, Will’s hand is on his face.

“Scho?” He pouts, tilting his head into the warmth of the touch and meeting the other’s eyes with questions in his own.

“I hate it here.” Will says, solemn and serious and Tom’s stomach drops down into his soles.

“Will?” He tries again, hoping for clarification and hoping that the other’ll stop being a mysterious prick for once.

“I hate it here – it’s why I left yesterday. I hate it here because it’s given me a glimpse of what life could be. Of what I could have had if things were different. A peaceful existence in a small town, where everyone knows their neighbours, where you go out for brunch like a posh twat, where it’s just me – where it’s just me, and you, and a room, and a bottle of shite whiskey and nobody else.” Will sucks in a sharp breath as all of the air in Tom’s lungs leaves him. “So yeah, I hate it here because it’s not real. It’s not – and it never will be – possible for me to have that. This. _You_.”

His last thought fizzes out of his ears as Will says _you_. Him? Tom? Lance Corporal Thomas Blake?

“Me?” He asks in disbelief, shuddering as Will’s thumb rubs over his cheek soothingly.

“You.” The other confirms. “You, Tom, the only bastard in this war stupid enough – kind enough – to go talk to the crazy-eyed Lance Corporal that fucks off to sit against a tree for hours on end by himself. The only soul generous enough to teach him what it means to not be afraid for a while, what it means to enjoy what you have now instead of mourning what hasn’t been lost yet. Hope is a dangerous thing, yes, but I think – that – as long as you’re there with enough hope for the both of us, we’ll do alright.”

He’s scared to speak. He’s scared to blink even, terrified that if he does he’ll start crying. That’s probably the longest string of sentences the other’s ever uttered in his direction. And they were all for him, a confession of something dangerous – something he hadn’t even hoped was a possibility.

“You’re not scared?” The idiot that he is, he can’t get the words that he wants to out. All his life spent yapping like a rabid cur and the only time it matters he can’t make the words sound right.

“I'm bloody terrified!” Will laughs, tipping forward until he’s resting his forehead against Tom’s. “But I know you, Tom. I know that even if this doesn’t come across the way that I want it to, that even then you’ll still do the right thing and remain my friend.”

“And how do you want this to come across?” He loses the grip on the glass and it goes tumbling onto the bed, thankfully empty. He raises the hand up to cup the outside of the one that Will has on his cheek.

“As a grand romantic gesture? Poetry? A confession of my sins? An _I love you?_ ” Will offers, eyes blinking slowly but clearer than they have been in days.

“Fuck, Scho, I'm speechless. You finally did it. Rendered me tongue-tied. What am I supposed to say to that, you cheesy bastard? How am I supposed to come up with anything as poetic as that?” He whines and Will chuckles, the sound deep and pleasant to the ear.

“How about, instead of talking, you kiss me?” The other offers and Tom bites down the grin that’s threatening to overtake his features.

He tilts his head back into the warm palm and presses forward, meeting the other’s mouth in a soft kiss. It’s not his first and it’s not earth-shattering but it means more to him than any other he’s ever had. Because it’s Scho. Because it’s Will and Will’s just confessed his sappy feelings for him which means that Tom’s been pining like an idiot for nothing.

Will pulls back, smiling gently. “Lovely.”

“God, shut up.” He whines, blushing bright red as the other presses kisses all over his face.

“Wanted to do that for a while. Never thought I’d get to.” The other admits and Tom shoots him a stern gaze.

“You can. You could have. Any time we were alone. Any time you caught me staring, any time you saw me lookin’ at your hands. I’ve always wanted to hold them.” He offers his palm up and Will obliges him, pressing their hands together. The difference in size is startling and it makes familiar heat shoot down his spine. He shivers, eyelids lowering coyly.

“I should have. The moment you went ass over tits, quite literally, that first time I talked to you.” Will presses his nose into Tom’s cheek and inhales steadily, his body going lax against Tom.

He shudders, “I get it, you know. I understand why you hate it. In a way, I do too. But I’ve always been more inclined to _live in the moment_. I know we may not be able to have this anywhere else but at least now, for tonight, we can allow ourselves the luxury.” His fingers tighten around Will’s hand and the other’s own digits flex against his face.

“Are you sure?” Will whispers against the shell of his ear and Tom’s eyes close on their own. It’s a tender moment, something he’ll cherish for years to come, he’s sure.

“I’m sure.” He smiles, turns his head and presses a kiss against Will’s wide palm.

This time, their kiss is a little less chaste. Instead it’s a testament to their need for each other as Will pries his mouth open with barely-concealed urgency. The other’s tongue meets his and Tom loses sight of himself, of time, of where they are and of the war they’re living through. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and not enough at the same time. He wants more. He wants kisses and hands on skin, wants to touch, to explore, to bring the other to his knees and to worship in turn.

He presses against the other, gently getting Will to lie on his back so that he can hover over him. Miraculously, one of Will’s hands is still on his face and it makes him smile widely into the kiss. He pulls back, though, because he has other plans and if this one nigh is all he has then he’ll go through with most of them.

He shuffles over and, thankful that they’d both discarded their trousers for comfort when they’d started drinking, straddles the other’s hips. Will’s eyes open in surprise. The other stares up at him with so much awe that Tom doesn’t think he can bear it for much longer – that tender look.

“Can I?” He grips the hem of the other’s undershirt and waits patiently for Will to nod his head. It takes some manoeuvring but they get the garment off and then Tom’s faced with Will’s bare skin, pale and spotless but for a few beauty marks scattered about. He’s all sinewy muscles and oh – _oh._ In his endless wonderment about the other’s hands, he’d completely overlooked how gorgeous the man’s forearms are. He holds out both of his palms and Will quirks an eyebrow at him.

He sighs, “Hands,” He wiggles his fingers and the other chuckles but obliges. He then takes the liberty to explore. He traces his fingers along the pink knuckles, the veins that pop when the other’s muscles are tensed, the grooves in his palms. He knows it’s ridiculous but he can’t help himself as he leans down and presses a kiss against the back of both of the other’s hands. “Gorgeous.” He concludes and Will sucks in a sharp breath.

“You must think I’m deranged.” He grins as Will vehemently shakes his head.

“No, never. You’re – perfect.” Scho admits and Tom bites his bottom lip, suppressing the shy grin that wants to escape him.

“Flattery? Trying to get me to do something, Will?” He teases, enjoying the way the other’s cheeks get pink so easily.

“Maybe.” Scho admits, tugging his hands out of his hold and letting them rest on his thighs and – and that’s nice. That’s _very_ nice. He enjoys that.

“What’s that, then?” He leans forward, caging the other’s head between his arms as he grips the bedding.

“God, Tom, don’t make me beg.” Will whines and Tom’s heart sings at the sound. The arousal at the notion that he feels is quite something – nothing like what he’s experienced so far in his life and entirely related to the fact that he has William Schofield under him and at his mercy.

“I’d never.” He gripes easily, leaning back and taking his own shirt off with more confidence than he necessarily feels.

“Can’t believe I get to – to touch. After thinking about it for so long.” Will’s eyes rove over the exposed skin and Tom feels the pleasant shivers making their way down his spine to pool in his abdomen as molten heat.

“Go on, then.” He pulls back a little, letting Will sit up against the headboard of the narrow bed. And as he situates himself in the other’s lap properly, he has just enough wits about him not to lose it completely when he feels a distinctive hardness under him. He doesn’t have the time to make a smart comment about it because Will’s large hands are suddenly on his hips, dragging upwards and mapping a path, covering more skin than they legally should be allowed to.

“Scho,” He gasps as the other presses a thumb against his nipple, blushing at the unexpected gesture. “Fuck, Will, firmer, not goin’ to break.” He demands, wanting to feel the pressure all over him; wanting to be able to feel it in the morning as well.

“Don’t want to leave marks.” The other admits and Tom laughs.

“I’d let you do anything, you do realize that?” He presses a brief kiss to the other’s mouth. “I’d let you mark me up if you wanted it, I’d let you bite and bruise. F- ah.” He moans quietly as Will’s fingers become more insistent, digging into his back. “Fuck, I’d let you.”

“Jesus, you’ll be the death of me.” Will groans, bucking up underneath him and pulling him down at the same time into a slow grind. His breath catches, the motion sending pleasure scattering all over his body, leaving him helpless with hands gripping the other’s shoulders.

“Hopefully _after_ you get your cock out.” He grins when Will moans low in his throat, the sound ragged but somehow gentle as well.

Some more fumbling ensues and then he’s finally getting his hands on the other’s hard length. He grins brightly, kissing the other’s cheek as his hands encircle them both. It’s not enough – his fingers are just too short and even if the feeling is blissful he wants – he wants.

“Will,” He whines, “Hands.” He motions down and the other obliges with a chuckle, wrapping one of his large paws around them both.

He curses under breath, whining as his hips start moving on his own. It’s – the pressure, the touch, the knowledge that it’s _Will_ – it’s too much. But it’s so good and he can only helplessly thrust into the firm grip and moan as the pleasure overtakes him. And while with the other hand Scho digs bruises into his hip, he grips the other’s forearms with his own fingers. He feels the muscle shift under his hold, feels the way the other’s arms tense and relax with the motions.

“Christ, Will,” He purrs, nudging his head under the other’s chin, pressing an insistent kiss to the other’s throat. He wishes he could press a bruise there as well, give him a bruise to wear with pride. But he knows he can’t. He knows he’ll probably never be able to. So he just moans and presses his open mouth against the warm skin, presses his teeth there lightly.

“So pretty,” Will mumbles, seeking his mouth out. The kiss is sloppy this time; uncoordinated and fuelled by desire and need. And he’s so close already and it’s such a shame they won’t get past this, such a shame that they weren’t prepared for anything more. One day, he thinks, one day he’ll straddle the other and sink down onto him and – and make Will forget both their names.

“Close,” He gasps, arching back, pushing into the motion of the other’s hand, into the slick heat of it. “So close, Will, love, please.” He pleads, he doesn’t know for what but is blessedly rewarded by the other’s hand travelling from his hip to his ass, gripping and urging him into a faster rhythm.

It doesn’t take long after that. The messy kisses, the hushed breaths and words of praise, they all culminate in him biting at his own hand to keep the loud groan at bay as he finishes. Will follows suit, head buried against Tom’s chest as he paints his abdomen white. And as he watches, he wishes he’d gone down on his knees for the other before they were done. But, another time perhaps.

Will nudges him off gently, rummaging through his jacket for a handkerchief to wipe them both off with. They’ll have to shower in the morning before they leave but he doesn’t want to think about that now. Instead, he makes himself at home in the other’s bed, stretching out and relaxing as Will watches with a fond smile.

“Come here,” He holds out a hand and Will takes it, lets himself be dragged back onto the small bed.

They lie there, plastered against each other and basking in the shared warmth, the press of skin against skin when Tom’s hit with the guilt of his earlier snooping.

“Oh, um.” He clears his throat and avoids the other’s inquiring eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Will pauses the gentle movements of his hand against his back and Tom mourns the loss.

“I was being a little pining bastard earlier and I snooped where I shouldn’t have.” He admits, biting his cheek and Will wrinkles his nose in confusion.

“Where’d you look?”

“The tin.” He admits, “The book in there. The flowers, I – sorry.”

Will chuckles. “Well, considering what we’ve just done and all that’s been said tonight, I think it’s safe to say you didn’t find anything incriminating I hadn’t already confessed to.”

“Huh?” He asks dumbly, wondering why the other wasn’t mad.

“Tom,” Will croons, “The only reason I never showed you was because I thought you’d be – you’d be disgusted. Because there’s no other explanation to why I kept them other than they were from you to me, something that had started this whole thing. They’re there because they were something that you’d given me and the only thing I thought I’d ever be allowed to have.” The other explains and Tom feels his face heat up.

“Oh.” He dodges the other’s eyes again, this time embarrassed. He presses his nose into the hollow of the other’s throat and smiles to himself. “That’s romantic.”

“It’s miserable, I’m a miserable cunt.” Will counters and Tom snorts.

“Hope you find something that makes you happy soon, then.”

“I already have.”

And tomorrow they’ll go back. They’ll go back to their regiment, to their meadow and their tree and making wreaths together and fearing for their lives but for now, for tonight, it’s just him and Will and this cramped bed and the sound of their combined breathing and the warmth between their bodies.

**Author's Note:**

> and then tom DOESNT die when they do the mission and everything is FINE  
> Ps: yall can find me on tumblr and twt @marionettefthjm if yall wanna reach me!! :D


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